


Oyasumi

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, similar to 'Let Me In' but SHRUGS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: “Why are you awake? Something wrong?”“Yeah. I’m worried about you.”“What?” Shiro keeps his tone light, eyes locked on his computer screen. “Keith, I’m fine.”Shiro can feel Keith’s glare like nails against his neck. “You haven’t slept in days, Shiro.”





	Oyasumi

**Author's Note:**

> For [Keepleaves](http://keepleaves.tumblr.com/), who requested an exhausted Shiro fic a hundred years ago! So sorry for the delay, dear! <33

Shiro blinks like he wants to squeeze the sleep out of his eyes, then taps out another line of his log entry. He shifts, curling his toes in his boots, and flinches at the pain. His feet are raw and blistered. He can’t remember the last time he sat down.

Two days awake. It wasn’t so uncommon at school. The Garrison was full of procrastinators—students who were too scared to try until the last picosecond, when the caffeine rush outweighed the relentless anxiety and perfectionism. Shiro spent too many nights awake with his friends, the familiar, frantic tip-tapping of keypads a kind of white noise in his ears. Shiro tries to capture that old mentality—the college cocktail of dread and adventure—as he stands before his computer monitor, keying in the space equivalent of a flight report. He’s not stranded in space, thousands of lightyears from his home planet. He’s just writing a paper for Astronomy Lab. Once he finishes, he can go to sleep. If Shiro focuses, he can almost smell the triple-shots.

Sleep. What an novel concept.

“Shiro?”

Shiro frizzles up. His hands clench to a stop over the keypad. “Keith?”

“Yeah. Weren’t you going to bed a couple hours ago?”

Shiro pauses at the term “hours.” The other paladins had long since embraced Altean time measurements. Shiro peeks over his shoulder. Keith has come to a stop a few feet behind Shiro on the main deck. He’s dressed in his civilian clothes. His arms are laced over his chest in a show of disapproval, and his stance is combative, like he plans on dragging Shiro to his bedroom.

Shiro bites back a sigh.

“I wanted to finish up this report,” Shiro says.

Keith frowns. “Well, you could at least sit down. You don’t have to stand at attention when everyone else is asleep.”

“It’s fine. I like standing.” Shiro returns to typing. His feet burn against the pads of his boots. “Why are you awake? Something wrong?”

“Yeah. I’m worried about you.”

“What?” Shiro keeps his tone light, eyes locked on his computer screen. “Keith, I’m fine.”

Shiro can feel Keith’s glare like nails against his neck. “You haven’t slept in days, Shiro.”

“You know I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

“Actually, right now? I think you need the most sleep out of all of us.” There are fingers on Shiro’s metal wrist suddenly. Keith holds like he’s afraid to hurt, his fingers loose around Shiro’s prosthetic. “Just…take a nap, at least. You can finish later.”

Shiro opens his mouth to argue, but when he turns his head, his resolve crumbles. Keith’s eyes are hopeful, his grip gentle but firm as he squeezes Shiro’s wrist.  

A surge of fear twists Shiro’s stomach, but he pries his hands from the keyboard. Keith’s fingers stray from his wrist.

“Okay,” Shiro concedes. He waves off his monitor. “A quick nap. 30 minutes.”

 

 

Keith follows Shiro down the hall.

Irritation clips Shiro’s steps. Since when did Keith decide Shiro needed a babysitter? He obviously doesn’t trust him to go to his room without an escort.

“Look, Keith,” Shiro begins, with all the patience he can muster. “I appreciate you looking out for me like this. I really do. But I think I can remember the way to my own room.”

It’s a testament to Shiro’s tiredness that he expects an argument. Keith always lowers his hackles when Shiro’s around. In this moment, Keith grinds to a halt.  

Shiro walks ahead for a few paces, then pauses. He looks over his shoulder.

Keith turns his chin up to Shiro. He opens his mouth to say something, but a shielded look comes down over his face. His thumb and forefinger pinch the edge of his left sleeve. Then Keith turns, and starts back down the hall.

“G'night, Shiro,” Keith says, mostly to the hallway. There’s no malice to the statement. “See you tomorrow.”

Shiro stares after Keith. He doesn’t make to apologize, though regret singes his heart like a cigarette burn. Stupid. Keith had only wanted to help.

It doesn’t matter. Shiro can apologize to Keith tomorrow. For now, he should make good on his word and go to bed.

Bed. That’s part of the problem. As a prisoner, Shiro slept on a hard metal floor. The castle’s mattresses feel too soft by comparison. Too kind, almost. Some nights Shiro still sleeps on the floor of his bedroom. 

Shiro thinks about his quarters—the way the lights line the walls; the geometry of his furniture; the cold sting of the floor.

It occurs to Shiro that his legs aren’t moving anymore. He can feel a wall under his hands. Confused, Shiro lifts his head. He peers out, and sees the opposite end of the hall—but the edges of the hall columns are too rough; the walls too close. The hall lights seem brighter than before. It’s like Shiro’s whole world has started to fold in on him. 

“Breathe, Shiro.”

Shiro’s heart beats a bruise into his ribcage. He braces himself against the wall at his back, and the metal feels like an arena pillar. What’s going on? Shiro opens his mouth to ask, and splutters on empty air.

“Come on, Shiro. Focus on my voice. You know how to do this.”

Shiro doesn’t understand. How did Keith get here? A red and black blur stoops to meet his eyes; Shiro’s crouched now, ready to lash out at any alien opponents. His vision starts to bleach around the edges. Keith grabs Shiro’s hands. He gathers them to his chest, until Shiro’s left palm sits flat over his heart. 

Shiro can feel Keith’s heartbeat under his fingers; the rise and fall of his chest. He tries to focus on the sensation of Keith’s shirt under his fingers. Almost unconsciously, he begins to mimic the gentle cadence of his breath.

Keith nods, and his fingers close tighter around Shiro’s hands. Shiro focuses on the movement of Keith’s lips as he fights for breath. He wheezes, and air slips down his throat. A tiny gust of oxygen. Shiro’s lungs scream with relief. 

In. Out. In. Out. The floor starts to solidify under his feet. The arena trickles away, replaced by the marble geometry of the castle.

In. Out.

Shiro closes his eyes, and his world narrows down to the thud of Keith’s heartbeat. The sensation echoes up through his metal hand. Shiro grounds himself in the steady thrum of Keith’s body. His breaths are nearly even now, his throat no longer a pinhole. 

Keith relaxes his grip on Shiro’s hands.

“Shiro,” he murmurs, once he’s sure Shiro will hear. “What do you need?”

Shiro opens his eyes. With his awareness comes a hot rush of embarrassment. His hands slip from Keith’s torso.

Shit. A panic attack, or a flashback. Shiro looks at Keith, his chest tight, and swallows.

“I don’t know,” he forces out.

Keith meets his eyes, a determined set to his lips. “Okay,” he says, gently. “Well, you should lie down. How about we get you to your room?”

In a second Shiro’s pulse picks up again. He sees cool metal walls—sharp corners—lights that dye his skin a fluorescent purple. The panic must reach his eyes, because Keith scrambles to correct himself: “Or we could try the movie lounge. There are long couches, and windows.”

Shiro grits his teeth. His head spins, and he bends forward, his palms braced on his knees. “Fuck,” he bites out. Keith tenses. “Look at me. I can’t even…think about my own room without having a fucking _panic attack_.”

Shiro hears Keith cross his arms. “Your walls are gonna’ be down,” he says. “It’s only natural. You’ve barely slept.”

“Yes,” Shiro agrees, crossly, “because I’m afraid of _sleeping_. Admit it, Keith: I’m a fucking mess.”

That sucks Keith back into Shiro’s space. He claps his hands onto Shiro’s shoulders. “Hey. No. Shiro, look at me.”

But Shiro won’t look up from the floor. His tone is plaintive—unfamiliar to his own ears: “I can’t do this anymore, Keith.”

“You don’t have to,” Keith says. “Shiro, please. Just look at me.”

Shiro doesn’t have a choice. He unfolds a little from his coiled position, craning his neck to peek up at Keith’s face. He’s surprised by the glow behind Keith’s eyes. There’s a familiar turn to his brow; a determination in his stance. Shiro recognizes the look from the battlefield. It doesn’t take a good night’s sleep to guess that Keith’s about to do something reckless.

“Keith,” Shiro warns. His muscles are tight with apprehension. “You—”

There are lips on Shiro’s.

Shiro can’t choke back a surprised noise. The kiss lasts for less than a second; Shiro processes a press of skin against skin, and a quiet huff of breath as Keith tilts away. Keith hovers, his face even with Shiro’s. His eyes bore a hole through Shiro’s skull.

“It’s okay,” Keith says. Shiro’s knees threaten to give out, but he doesn’t move. “It’s okay to be a mess. It’s okay to be hurt and afraid.”

“It’s not,” Shiro croaks. There’s pressure behind his eyes. “I can't—I can’t hold you back like this—”

“You don't—”

“We’re at war, Keith,” Shiro reminds him thickly. “We don’t have time for panic attacks over—over bedrooms!”

Keith snarls out a reply: “Shiro, for fuck’s sake! Did you tune out that kiss or what? _I will always have time for you_.”

“Keith—”

“I love you,” Keith declares. The hallway lights betray the wetness of his eyes. “You have to understand that I _want_ to help you. I want to _be with you_. And that’s never gonna’ change, panic attacks or no panic attacks. Okay?”

Shiro opens his mouth, but no words come out. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

Keith sees them. How could he not? He’s barely a foot away, his fingers curled around Shiro’s upper arms.

“ _Okay_?” Keith presses.

Ever so slowly, Shiro straightens his spine. Keith follows the movement. His hands stay on Shiro’s arms, though they tremble slightly. Strands of hair crisscross over his nose; his lips are pursed like he wants to bite them.

So he’s scared too.

Shiro takes a long moment to steel himself. A tear slips down his cheek.

“Okay,” he chokes out. 

Keith lifts his hand. He cards the tear away with his thumb. “Then let’s try this again. Do you want to go to the movie lounge?”

“I…think I can manage that.”

Keith ventures a smile. “Then let’s go.”

 

 

They end up sprawled on the couch together, Keith pressed to Shiro’s back with his arms wrapped around his sternum. They leave the lights on; they serve the gentle fiction that they’ll be back to work within the hour. It’s easier to relax this way—to pretend Shiro’s not about to waste hours of precious time. He cuddles back against Keith’s embrace, and lets his eyelids droop.

“I love you too,” Shiro whispers, as he squeezes Keith’s hand.

Keith smiles against his neck. It’s the last thing Shiro remembers before he drifts off.

**Author's Note:**

> Have you guys heard [“Oyasumi” by Priscilla Ahn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5LffumAzRQ)? Because ohhhh my god. So cute.


End file.
